


The Other Story Varric Will Never Tell

by Zendelai



Series: Dragon Age One-Shots, Drabbles, and etc. [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: And Hawke just laughs at him, F/M, Fluff, In which Varric gets sappy, Purple Hawke, and cute, and insecure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 12:53:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4305837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zendelai/pseuds/Zendelai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varric's been hiding his feelings for a little too long.</p><p>Giveaway prize for saint-leona over on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other Story Varric Will Never Tell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SaintLeona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintLeona/gifts).



_In which Varric becomes a bit too self-depreciating, and Hawke fixes it with whiskey and a kiss._

_Giveaway prize forsaint-leona. Hope you enjoy!_

_\--_  
  
In the evenings, the Hightown Market always felt full of ghosts. Ghosts of merchants insisting that their piece-of-shit armour is that much better than their neighbour's, ghosts of patrons naive enough to believe them, and ghosts of nobles who just didn't give a shit.

Yet in a way, Varric preferred the way it was at night. No rambunctious children sprinting past him causing the ground to shake, no one shouting "you there, dwarf!" as if he were no more than his race, and more importantly, no merchants who chose to ignore him for that exact reason. It felt sickly ironic to be thought of as such a lesser being by fellow merchants, just because he was shorter and a bit hairier, dammit.

Coming to the Market during the day was one of many times that he felt out of place. Maker, he never showed it, hiding it behind waves and jokes, but he knew it to be true. As a dwarf he was unwelcome amongst a city primarily occupied by humans, and as a surface dwarf he was ostracized by his own people.

In this den of snakes, there was one place he always felt welcome and accepted: with Hawke. Sure, her merry band of misfits were almost as nutty as his own brother, but she loved them all the same, and damn if his days wouldn't be dull without them. They kept him on his toes: Merrill needed his connections for their watchful eyes, Anders needed supplies for the droves of sick and injured, and Aveline needed a fucking laugh once in a while before that scowl became permanent.

He sat on the Market's steps, the night turning the concrete cold beneath his bottom, the stars masked by too many clouds. It would rain tomorrow, he knew; Hawke wouldn't be pleased, they were heading up the Wounded Coast the next morning to clear out more Maker-damned Raiders (who he swore had to be breeding like rabbits) and she always preferred the sunshine for those trips.

That was a whole other problem: Hawke. She kept insisting that they help everyone who asked, no matter how trivial the problem or how small the reward, and although he was no bookkeeper he knew she had to give at least half of her earnings to citizens of Lowtown and Darktown, and the other half she split between their friends. She was selfless to a fault.

But every time he thought about her, he smiled. He couldn't help it; it was a reflex. He thought of her bright eyes which always seemed to be reading his mind, her quick-witted tongue that could banter with him for hours, and her smile. That smile could slay the strongest-willed man or woman, so filled it was with hope and promise.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he cursed under his breath. Now was not the time to think about Hawke's smile. Or her hair, which he knew would be as soft as his silk sheets. Or her long eyelashes, framing eyes which both spoke volumes and held secrets he would sell his soul to know.

He definitely needed to stop thinking about Hawke that way. That line of thought only lead to trouble, the sort of trouble she didn't need in an already troubled life.

His eyes shot open and his hand flew to Bianca when he heard footfalls behind him; slowly he spun, and an exhale of relief escaped him when he saw that it was Hawke herself, as if she had been summoned by his thoughts. Maker, but she was a painting in the dull moonlight, her smile at spotting him blinding, covering up the weary circles beneath her eyes.

* * *

 

Almost shyly, she said, "Didn't mean to alarm you, Varric. But you know, rogue and all, can't really help it."

He turned away to hide the furious flush that had crept into his cheeks. What in the name of Andraste was  _wrong_ with him? "Just... didn't expect to find anyone here."

"I do live here, you know." She plopped down one step below him, stretching out her long legs. "Well, not here exactly. Down the street. But I saw you on the way back from The Hanged Man, and couldn't resist checking in on my favourite dwarf." From her tunic she pulled out a flask; she took a long swallow before handing it to Varric, who grasped it greedily. He needed something -- anything -- to distract him from the flurry of thoughts that poured through his mind at the simple brush of their fingertips during the exchange. He wondered how those fingertips would feel against his bare skin, if her lips would be as soft as he had always imagined, if she would smile after they kissed, if --

_Shit, shit, shit, Varric, stop it now._

"You're quiet tonight, Varric."

He shook his head, like a dog getting water out of its ears. Where was his damn composure?

_Apparently with your strictly-friends feelings towards Hawke._

Well, at least he was being honest to himself now. Even if the honesty was  _shit_.

"I'm just trying to swallow your shitty whiskey," he lied.

"Please," she scoffed, "This is worse than Corff's drivel?"

"It's more like varnish than whiskey."

Playfully, she smacked his arm. "You're making me doubt dwarf taste buds."

"You're making me doubt my sanity."

Hawke laughed as she pulled the flask out of his hands, taking another hearty swallow. "No more for you, then."

In spite of their standard fare banter, Hawke appeared haunted today, and not by the Market's ghosts. He could see it in the heavy bags under her eyes, and the lines in the corners that were growing more defined each day. She was still beautiful, but it was a beauty weary and worn.

"Everything alright, Hawke?"

One thing he had to say about her, she was never afraid to talk about her feelings. "Got a letter from Bethany today." Her hands drooped between her knees, her fingers as long and slim as spider's legs, and she hung her head. "She's... still not enjoying the Grey Wardens, exactly. She's glad to be alive, but it's not a fate meant for her."

"And Kirkwall's Circle would have been better?"

She shrugged, her long arms moving lazily as she did. "Maybe. At least she wouldn't have the inevitable Calling hanging over her head there."

"She'd have Templars watching her piss and sleep, which is much better."

Hawke snorted. "Or she could be free. Free like she had been her whole life."

Varric's hand moved of its own accord and rested on Hawke's thigh in a comforting gesture. It felt hot where his bare palm touched leather. "When she was on the run, was she ever truly free? At least now she doesn't have to fear being a mage."

There was a sparkle of laughter in her eyes when they met his. "Shit, you sound like Anders now."

Varric covered his mouth in mock abashment. "Shit, I do! Stop me now before I start shaking Bianca at Templars."

Hawke giggled -- not just laughter, but a joyful giggle that bubbled up from her chest and made his heart lighten. "Well, at least Bethany didn't lock us up in the Deep Roads."

This startled a laugh out of Varric. "If we're going to talk about Bartrand, I'm going to need more of that whiskey." She passed it to him, and he choked down two shots' worth, his head spinning when he handed the flask back.

As they exchanged glances, he saw it again; Hawke's worry, her concern, her brows pinching and her gaze downcast in her obvious tell of having something on her mind.

"Something more, Hawke?"

As soon as he asked, some of the tension eased from her shoulders. "Yeah. Mother's been getting into one of those 'you-need-to-get-married-to-a-nobleman' moods."

"Which one this time?"

Hawke's nose scrunched. "Lord Alrich's son. He's twenty, pimply, and an arrogant sod at that."

"The suitors are getting worse," Varric pointed out. "You better hurry before she pairs you with Lord what's-his-face's son, the one with the toxic breath?"

Deep in her throat, Hawke made a disgusted noise. "Lord Wellsley's son Devon? Oh, Maker, that breath could slay a giant spider. We should recruit him." She sighed before taking another swig of whiskey; he could see from the faint sway in her movements and her bloodshot eyes that she was on her way to being right drunk. When she started to pull out her knives, he knew it would be time to take her home.

Into the distance Hawke gazed, her eyes narrowed in thought. "Have you ever thought about leaving Kirkwall, Varric?"

"Me?" he scoffed. "Never."

"There's so much out there," she whispered. Her voice was filled with both longing and restraint. "I've seen much of Fereldan, but I've never been to Orlais. Or Antiva. What would Antiva be like? Would it be as necessary as it is here to marry a noble that you hate, just to carry on the family name?"

"It is in Orzammar," Varric said. "Well, within your Caste at least. Maker forbid you fall in love with someone 'below' or 'above' you socially. The Ancestors would literally strike you down where you stand."

Her eyes met his, and they were filled with a sorrow unlike any he had read on her before. "Is there no such thing in Thedas as marrying for love?"

There was love in their world -- that he knew for certain, for he loved Hawke. He loved her heart, he loved her soul, he loved every part of her.

But what was he? A surface dwarf exiled by his people for his father's mistakes? A spinner of tales who wears his bravado like a shield?

"There is," he whispered, wishing in that moment that he could be so much more than he was.

A corner of her lip lifted in a smirk. "In somewhere other than your stories."

"All you have to do is just piss off your family."

Hawke's laugh was more like a guffaw, and she gripped her chest. "Unfortunately for my family, I've pissed them off already. Well, the one member of it remaining in Kirkwall, at least."

"That makes two of us, Hawke."

She sighed and gazed off into the night, the moon becoming unsheathed by the clouds. She closed her eyes, and he knew she was letting the cool air enter her lungs. Her hands gripped the stairs, and he could see blood caked beneath her short, stubby fingernails -- when they weren't bloody, she had that awful habit of biting them, Anders slapped her hand every time but she still persisted -- and her hands were covered in scars from blades belonging to both herself and others. Yet the scars were a map of her life, paths twisted and unending, the pain still not over in spite of how much she had already endured.

But she was strong, Hawke. She would continue to endure, regardless of what the world threw at her, and she would continue to be kind, and she would continue to make those around her laugh. That strength in the face of not only adversity but also pain was what made her the heroine of writers' dreams.

That, her charm, and her striking good looks.

He was so lost in reverie, his gaze affixed on her hands, he hadn't noticed her eyes open to search his face. She had that way of looking at a person like she was commiting each feature to memory, reading the subtle cues. It was why he never beat her at Diamondback; she could read even  _his_ tells.

In a voice that was both open and honest, shocking Varric to rigidity, she said, "I'd marry you, you know."

He managed to squeak out something resembling a " _What_?"

"I would." Her confidence and sureness in herself was more than his mind was able to process. "Your breath smells fine, you're not an asshole, you have no pimples."

"Your standards are shockingly low." Thank you, engrained sense of humour.

She shimmied closer. Holy  _shit_ , she was close to him. He could smell her, now; metal and leather and vanilla. "You're my best friend, and you know me like no other. You always make me laugh. You're smart. You have glorious chest hair and you're handsome." She paused, appraising him like a find blade. "Yep, definitely a potential husband."

Maker's breath he felt clammy, sweat beading on his brow as his skin became tight. For a man who always knew what to say, he suddenly found himself at a complete loss for words.

Caution told him to be self-depreciating, laugh it off as he always does her compliments.

Greed told him to stop giving a fuck.

Between the whiskey singing in his veins, her piercing gaze that made him feel so naked, the solemnity of the night, and pure impatience, greed won out.

"You'd be a great wife." He cleared the tightness from his throat. "Not for the 'baking scones' and 'cleaning' part -- you burn everything you cook and you're much better at making things dirtier than cleaning them." Her returning smile lit up her eyes, and provided him with the bravery he needed to continue. "But you care, truly. You're warm and full of life and make each day that much brighter." At his words, his cheeks filled with heat like lava, and he had to avert his gaze in shame. He was grateful that it was night, so she couldn't see the flush that crept from his cheeks to his chest.

For a spot she remained silent, and he held his tongue from the embarrased apology that wanted to creep up onto his lips. Shit, what a fool he had made of himself, and in front of Hawke too. He hoped she would look him in the eye again after this. He hoped they could go back to the way that they were, without this moment standing between them. This was why he had never said anything before.

"Why  _haven't_ we tried it?" Her words startled his eyes to meeting hers again, and in them, he could only see an earnest desire. "We know we're a good pair. Andraste's tits, why the fuck not, right? Life's too damn short to not take every opportunity as it comes, Bethany's letter--"

Heat and pleasure rolled through his body in waves, and every bit of composure and caution was tossed to the wind. Grasping her cheeks -- oh, Maker, they felt so warm beneath his hands -- he pulled himself towards her and pressed his lips to hers, gently but filled with the deepest need from both his heart and soul.

It was better than he could have ever dreamed.

She was soft, so soft, both her lips under his and her cheeks beneath his hands. Her nose was a comfort pressed beside his, her hands resting on his waist once the initial burst of surprise had worn off, pulling her even closer to him. He could taste whiskey, yes, but mint too, and the faintest sweetness that he wished he could remember for the rest of his days. Her hands ran up and down his back, tentative, testing the waters of this newness, but in spite of the newness it felt comfortable and known and familiar and most importantly it felt  _real_. Real like they had both been waiting for this moment for three years, each movement amplified tenfold as his nerves were set alight in joy. Every moment he made she responded in kind, her hand gripping his shirt met with his hands plunging into her hair, her increase in pressure on his lips met with him turning his head to deepen the kiss, a rhythm present like they were in perfect sync, theirs a song they had both been writing for years and when they put the scores together, it made music more beautiful than either of them had ever heard.

That moment could have stretched across the rest of his life and he never would have complained. He would have given up writing, drinking, cards -- Maker, he would have even given up  _Bianca_ \-- to kiss Hawke forever.

As every great moment did, this one passed, but like a signature after a love letter she pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose and then to his forehead, her smile so bright it lit up the night.

His breath coming in gasps -- he hadn't realized how little he had remembered to breathe through the whole kiss -- he managed to whisper, "I'm on board with trying this."

She pressed her forehead against his, closing her eyes blissfully like a mabari bathing in the sunlight, and in the aura of that expression of pure joy he felt that warmth spread through his every limb.

"Isabela is going to positively wet herself," Hawke giggled.

"With envy, because I got to kiss you and she didn't?"

He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, pulling her head in, and she nestled into his neck. They fit together perfectly, the piece of the puzzle in his life that he had always been looking for.

Things would not always be this easy for them -- they never were, and nothing worth keeping was -- but he treasured the unabashed pleasure of this moment.

He always told his listeners that the only story he would never tell was the one of Bianca.

But now he knew he had to add one more story to this list: the story of him and Hawke.  

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't get the chance to write much Varric/Hawke, so this was really enjoyable! Thank you to saint-leona for the prompt.


End file.
